


Music Therapy

by 43degrees



Category: Vundabar (Band)
Genre: First Time, Hair Caressing, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:43:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27170581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/43degrees/pseuds/43degrees
Summary: Drew can tell Brandon needs tenderness.
Relationships: Brandon Hagen/Drew McDonald
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Music Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Set years back, when things were too bad to be specific. 
> 
> P.S. It's 2020 so idk if i really have to be clear on this but just in case the thought crosses your mind, please don’t show this to the band members. Bandfics are for shippers and not for bands.

Brandon pours into Drew’s bedroom like hot glue. He sticks to Drew’s growing collection of records and pulls one out of the stack, unsheathing the LP seamlessly and drops it into the record player. Music swamps the room, erupts out of the window and gets in their noses. Brandon tumbles over to Drew’s bed and spills out over the mattress, and stays there. Stuck. 

Drew can see the way that The Strokes’ thick bass line and upbeat drums vibrate through Brandon’s bones. A steady twitch in his arms, and the tips of his bare feet curling to the beats of the song. But in between the bars, in between the bones, there’s an upset. There’s a collusion of worry and anxiety and guilt and confusion. The source of it all pushing out the seams, teasing out of Brandon in translucent pus. Invisible in its essence, but the effect on Brandon is palpable. 

Whenever Drew sees Brandon this way, he can’t help but try and help. Talks, mucks around mimicking Moretti’s drumming in  _ Soma _ and cracks jokes. Brandon laughs a laugh that could sound real to anyone else, but Drew knows it's feigned. A hollowness to the sound coming out of Brandon’s throat akin to flicking a glass a quarter full. He had thought Brandon was glue, rolling into his bedroom like he knew exactly where to go, but seeing the way Brandon is sprawled out on Drew’s bed, legs hanging off the end, his head nowhere near a pillow… Drew realises that there’s nothing adhesive about Brandon today. He’s not his usual magnetic self. He’s deflated, ungummed, a glass of water a quarter empty. 

Drew pushes his pillow out of the way and draws himself up onto the mattress, sitting beside Brandon’s head. He doesn’t know what exactly compels him to do this -- it’s something his mom used to do to him when he was sick and feeling down. It’s obvious that Brandon needs to be cared for, needs to be looked after when he spends so much of his time caring for other people. It’s the least Drew can do. 

He pushes his fingers through the top layer of Brandon’s thick brown hair and starts carding his fingers through the soft strands, gently massaging Brandon’s scalp. He doesn’t care about the oiliness of Brandon’s hair or the dead skin that gets in his nails, he only cares about Brandon, about the way a calm seems to immediately wash over him. Jittery movements come to a stand still, his eyes glaze over and droop shut, and a blissed out expression emerges on his face. 

Drew keeps going. Silently. Julian Casabalancas’ scratchy reptilian voice forming an undercurrent to Drew’s touch, and still he can’t take his eyes off Brandon’s face. Watching the way Brandon’s brow creases, a little interspersed wrinkle in Brandon’s nose, the way he has drawn his feet up onto the bed and the way his toes curl and the skin goes white. And it’s only when Brandon lets out a satisfied sigh that Drew stops. 

Brandon snaps his eyes open. He lets out a noise in protest, but then softens when he sees what Drew is doing. Drew repositions himself, pulling himself deeper onto the bed so that he can support his back on the wall. He then gently lifts Brandon, propping his head in his lap -- strategically down a bit on his thighs, just in case. So long as Brandon doesn’t turn his head, Drew will be fine.

Though drums are more his forte, he finds himself patting Brandon’s hair to the sleek guitar in  _ Someday _ , the record having come round to the fifth song on the album. A smile grows on Brandon’s face, his eyes closed, his cheeks pink. A little tickle of Brandon’s voice murmurs, scratchy lyrics carrying out. When he fubs a line, he turns his face sideways and suddenly everything is not okay. 

Drew freezes. He can feel Brandon’s hot breath on the bulge in his jeans. Instinctively Drew withdraws, hugging the wall behind him, forcing Brandon to sit up. Strands of hair stick out in odd directions from Brandon’s scalp. He looks like the men in the late night pornos he’s not allowed to watch, the way they look after the fact, messy hair and flushed face and  _ vulnerable _ . But this isn’t after the fact. They haven’t even done anything and yet Brandon is looking at him with his eyes kind of glassy, his eyelids lowered, his lips parted. 

He’s never seen Brandon this way before. At least not in reality. Countless times he has laid down in his bed at night, knowing that Brandon was lying in his bed in the next unit over, in the exact same floor layout at his unit, wishing that Brandon was lying in the same spot as him. He’s imagined it a hundred different ways and it’s never happened this way before. 

They’ve lived next to each other since they were kids. They didn’t think much of each other at the start. Their parents tried to get them to be friends, for the convenience, but it wasn’t until after their parents quit trying to force things did they come together like magnets. It was harder for Drew, he thinks, because he actually wanted to like Brandon who initially acted indifferent towards him. He had to pretend not to be so happy that Brandon actually did want to be friends with him. He had to play it off cool, make Brandon laugh, win him over. But he thinks Brandon wanted to be won over. Wanted to be impressed. Drew can’t help but fall for that, can’t help but do what it takes to get Brandon to smile. 

Only this is the closest he’s ever gotten before outside of his wet dreams. Brandon’s pulling one leg over Drew’s lap and fitting it right beside Drew’s thigh. For a second Drew doesn’t even understand what Brandon is  _ doing _ , but then he feels the dulled sharpness of Brandon’s chin hooking over his shoulder and Brandon’s hot breath skating down the back of his neck. And he freezes, or was he already a statue? What else can he do? He’s already said all the things he can think of to say. Already run out of jokes. He is out of ideas to make the total despair in Brandon go away and yet Brandon seems to think there’s something that can be done. 

How he got this idea worries Drew. Is it something that Drew instigated? Is he wrong for doing so? For planting a seed in Brandon’s mind, for sowing a kind of care that has  _ limits _ . Limits because as much as Drew wants this, he feels so fucking guilty for leading Brandon to this kind of intimacy. The kind of talk that’s going around in regards to his family will be nothing in comparison to if news gets out that Brandon’s gay. 

Then again, he’s not really the one leading Brandon on, is he? Not when Brandon’s the one plucking Drew’s limp hand from the mattress where it now lays, and thrusting Drew’s frigid fingers through the hair on the back of Brandon’s head. That’s when things click.  _ Oh _ . Brandon wants him to access parts of his hair that he couldn’t before, that were buried in the dark expanse of his sheets. That’s all it is? That’s all it is then. 

Look, it’s not bad. He can do this, especially if it’s what Brandon wants. He can manage. And he kind of has to secure his fingers against the back of Brandon’s head and wrap his other arm around Brandon’s waist because otherwise Brandon will slip. He’ll fall. Brandon’s already falling in ways that Drew can’t help, can’t even see. He can’t see the waterfall that’s currently bursting from the unit beside his, carrying Brandon and the rest of his family members down a stormy river that they try so desperately to hide. Brandon’s mom and dad and frantically scooping dirt off the sides of the banks and throwing it into the river, as if they can bury it. And they do, because the current of that transparent river is hard to see. Hard to discern. Tiny tears pierce up through the packed earth where Drew waits, waits behind the wall that divides their houses, to catch Brandon. Drew wants Brandon to be able to count on him to be there. To keep him from slipping. He can do that, he can do this for him. 

The music’s still playing. He can’t remember if it’s gotten to his favourite song yet. He can barely hear it anymore. He just hears the fine hairs on the back of Brandon’s head seem to make a noise when Drew cards his fingers through it, the hairs falling against each other like fine grains of rice. A kind of gentle, continuous rain, falling from some great height in a silo onto a mound. His fingers moving through like a machine because it’s all he can manage, really. His heart beating in his throat. His left hand throbbing around Brandon’s waist. It’s robotic but he’d be a mess if he didn’t give way to the steady up and down and around again without the music to keep him in time. 

He’d be a mess, and then he just  _ is _ . He can’t help it. It’s Brandon’s fault, really, he’d regret to say. It’s Brandon’s fault because  _ Brandon _ is the one who is settled into his lap, who’s breathing down his neck, who  _ moans _ . And grinds. Oh god, Brandon  _ grinds _ his hips into Drew’s and he  _ must _ feel Drew’s straining cock between their jeans, he  _ must _ . He can’t  _ not _ feel it. 

Then Brandon laughs a real laugh. 

He peels off Drew’s chest, reeling back like a snake and glowers at Drew, his lips twisted into a curve at the corner of his mouth. He says nothing. 

Totally surprised, Drew says, “What?” 

“You’re hard,” Brandon comments, the stupid expression on his face remaining unchanged. 

Drew looks to one side, the spinning vinyl glinting in the corner of his room. He looks back at his best friend straddling his waist, then states the obvious. “Yeah.”

Brandon looks down at Drew’s crotch. He pulls his lips together under his nose and says, chuffed, “Cool.”

Before Drew can assess whether, once again, this has or hasn’t happened in his dreams, he feels Brandon’s fingers clasp around his bulge. Drew’s throat goes dry. If steam could arise from his face, he is certain that his glasses would be foggy. Brandon applies a small amount of pressure beneath his finger pads and traces the shape of Drew’s cock. His throat feels so incredibly dry. He feels like an animal splayed out on a tin tray in a science class, dead for days, body parts exposed for all to see. Except he’s still got all his clothes on, and he’s not in anywhere particularly public, just his bedroom, with his best friend, and  _ Hard To Explain _ singing into the street. 

“Bran-” Drew rasps. He swallows a lump in his throat, lacquering his mouth in saliva. “Brandon…”

Brandon slides two fingers over Drew’s cock, sliding across the fabric that wraps over his balls. Drew keen to the touch. “Yeah?”

The first flush of saliva in his mouth seemed to do nothing. He struggles to vocalise, “...What are you doing?”

“Well,” Brandon starts. He shifts his weight from his right leg to his left so as to give his right hand more maneuverability to explore Drew’s hardness. “That was really nice.”

_ What was really nice, _ Drew thinks. Touching him  _ there _ ?? 

“And, um…” Brandon cups Drew’s bulge with his whole hand, as if deciding that he has understood the layout by the outline, and that it’s time to understand Drew’s cock completely. He shrugs as he does this, a nonchalant, casual shrug that seems impossible for Drew to pull off given their current situation. “I liked it. It made me feel good.”

Brandon imbues a heat against Drew’s jeans that’s like asphyxiation. A kind of pain that stamps out his ability to breathe, but he wants it, pleasures in Brandon feeling him up. 

“Does this…” Brandon stammers. He rakes his eyes from Drew’s cock and locks eyes with Drew. “Good?”

Thoughts swarm through Drew’s head, a percentage of which is thankful that Brandon isn’t as put together as he appears. But that’s the whole thing, isn’t it. Brandon comes across as this bubbly, put together guy and underneath there’s just a boy who tumbles into his best friend’s room looking for consolation. Looking to be cared for… The pieces fall into place now. He understands what Brandon had meant by Drew making him feel good. It was the hair patting. That was it, really. 

Via a spark of courage, Drew reaches a hand up to Brandon’s head, slides his palm across the back of his sweaty neck and threads his fingers through Brandon’s hair once more. Brandon immediately keens to the touch, arching his spine, the delicate bones in his neck pulling apart the skin in a way that makes Drew want to kiss him. And oh god, does he want to kiss Brandon. 

As if reading his mind, Brandon veers close to his face, but instead of meeting Drew’s lips, he hooks his chin over Drew’s right shoulder again. He can hear the little thunk of Brandon’s forehead hitting the plaster wall, and feels the satisfied sigh that trembles through Brandon’s slight body. He’s clutching onto Drew’s other shoulder with his left hand, steading himself as he keeps rubbing Drew’s clothed cock with his right hand. The hardness of the wall behind Drew imposes on his back but he’s pinned to this spot, compelled to claw his fingers through Brandon’s hair and the heat between them sears as hot as the centre of a volcano. 

He hopes that the music is loud enough to drown out the embarrassing raspy noises that he makes. He hopes that his parents can’t hear, and won’t think to bother them, both thoughts that simmer at the sideline while he weaves a free hand between their bodies and tries to undo the button on his jeans. His knobbly fingers bump against Brandon’s, hot, sweat-slicked fingers. Drew mutters a noise in frustration when, one handed, he fails to pop the button out. Brandon slips his forehead down onto Drew’s shoulder now, his hot breath tangible on Drew’s chest. And the next thing Drew knows, Brandon’s helping him undo the button, unzip, a new thin layer of fabric to touch. 

Drew has to hitch forwards slightly to push his pants down, and Brandon lets out a mewl at the removal of Drew’s hand from his hair. Drew makes the move quick, able to pull out his cock from his underwear and settle back with one hand in Brandon’s hair and his other having to hold Brandon’s lower back. And maybe for the first time he notices the weight of Brandon. Small, always been a thin guy, but small in the sense that he’s curled up, a ball of heat cradled in Drew’s body. He can smell Brandon too, a familiar odour added to the cologne of sweat. And then there’s the smell of his own cock, a musk that fills the bubble in between Drew and Brandon’s bodies. 

Brandon sits up for a moment, a blade of fresh, cool air slicing in the now open space between them. He wipes his sweaty hands on the front of his t-shirt, showing off a self-admonishing smile. He says to Drew, “Can you still, uh…” A quirk in his upper lip as if to gesture the meaning. 

Drew gets the picture. Sees a work of art before him as Brandon spits in his now sweat-cleaned right hand and dives back to rejoin his forehead against Drew’s shoulder, a wet palm against Drew’s cock. 

Yeah, it’s never happened like this before. 

There’s no groove to speak of in the first few moments. Just a haphazard jerking motion on Brandon’s part, a grinding of his hips into Drew’s, and Drew’s vain attempts at keeping a rhythm in his caresses of Brandon’s scalp. The jam of different styles quickly pulls the two of them to one side of the mattress, falling together over Drew’s black sheets, falling into the night. Drew wants Brandon closer, but Brandon needs space to crank his wrist, and what ends up happening is Brandon in a C shape towards Drew. His hot forehead having slid down Drew’s shirt, and Drew’s hand pushing under the hem of Brandon’s t-shirt. Drew’s trembling hand runs over the bumps in Brandon’s spine, absorbs the trembles that wave through his friend’s body, and almost blacks out at the pleasure of being jerked off by someone else, by Brandon. 

A searing white thunderbolts through him, the tailend of a storm that vanishes as quickly as it had arrived. He cums, groaning a disgusting noise into Brandon’s ears. His body seizes up. Brandon clings to him, slows his hand movements, and peels off his hand like it had been glued there for years when the waves of Drew’s ejaculation comes to a stand still. That same, cum-slicked hand wraps around Drew’s waist as Brandon hugs him, presses close. Their breaths ragged, hot, dry. And when Drew catches a whiff of fresh air, a reprieve, he starts to caress Brandon’s head again. Slow, lazy movements. Loving movements. A sigh eliciting from Brandon that sounds so happy, and so laced with sadness. It’ll always be with him, Drew supposes, but Drew will always be with Brandon, too. 

  
  
  



End file.
